Lady Sophia's Lover

CHAPTER 17

Herself into the steaming water with a sigh, letting the heat soothe her abraded skin and sore muscles. Afterward she dressed and arranged her hair in a newly fashionable style, parted on the right with curls pinned on the left side.

Just as she reached for a bonnet trimmed with sprigs of hydrangea, Lucie entered the apartments with a hasty knock.

"Have you come to empty the bath?" Sophia asked.

"Yes, milady, but...they sent Ernest across the way wiv' a message. Sir Ross wants ye, an' 'e's asking for ye to come to 'is office."

The request was unusual, for Ross rarely sent for her in the middle of the day. "Yes, of course," Sophia said calmly, though she was conscious of an inner throb of uneasiness. "The carriage is most likely waiting at the front. Will you tell the driver that I will be delayed for a few minutes?"

"Yes, milady." Lucie bobbed deferentially and left.

Ernest was waiting downstairs to accompany her to No. 3.

"Ernest," Sophia asked as they walked out the back and crossed the courtyard, "have you any idea why Sir Ross has asked for me?"

"No, milady...except...there's been some grand to-do this morning. Mr. Sayer 'as come an' gone twice already, an' I 'eard tell that Sir Grant 'as sent for the militia to go to Newgate, an' dragoons to come 'ere!"

"They're expecting riots for some reason," Sophia murmured, while cold suspicion gathered in her chest.

The boy fairly wriggled with excitement."'Twould seem so, milady!"

An unusual number of constables and patrols were being summoned to No. 3. Groups of uniformed men nodded respectfully and removed their hats as Sophia passed by. Distractedly she bade them good morning and continued with Ernest until they reached Ross's office. Leaving the boy to stand in the hallway, Sophia pushed through the half-open door and saw Ross standing over his desk. Sir Grant Morgan stood staring out the window, an austere expression on his face. They both turned at her entrance, and Ross's gaze locked with hers. For one breathtaking moment the intimacy of the previous night flashed between them, and Sophia felt her pulse quicken.

Ross approached her and took her hand in a brief, hard clasp. "Good morning," he said quietly.

She forced herself to smile. "I assume you are going to explain why there is so much activity at the public office this morning."

He nodded and answered bluntly. "I want you to leave London and go to Silverhill. Just for a few days, until I decide it is safe for you to return."

She gazed into his face with dread. "You are expecting some kind of trouble, I gather." "Nick Gentry has been arrested and charged with receiving and selling stolen goods. A witness has come forward with solid evidence. I've bound Gentry over to the King's Bench and enjoined the Chief Justice to give him a fair trial. However, if the proceedings last too long, the masses will erupt in a way that will make the Gordon riots seem like a May Day festival. I don't want you anywhere near London until the matter is concluded." Although Nick's arrest was a goal Ross had long worked for, there was no triumph in his tone.

Sophia felt as if she had received a blow to the stomach. Nauseated and out of breath, she wondered why her brother had to be such a notorious criminal. If he were just a bit less successful, he could have prospered in relative anonymity. But no, he had to court fame and become a lightning rod for controversy, dividing the public and thumbing his nose in the faces of legally sanctioned police. Nick had made it virtually impossible for anyone to help him.

Blindly she groped for the chair behind her. Seeing her unsteadiness, Ross lowered her to the seat. He half crouched before her, staring into her ashen face with sudden anxiety. "What is it?" he asked, taking her cold hands in his. The warmth of his fingers did nothing to thaw her prickling skin. "Do you feel ill? Is it the baby--"

"No." She looked away from him, trying to force her wildly scattering thoughts into some coherent pattern. Her bones seemed to have turned into ice, coldness radiating from the inside out, making her skin hurt. Even the familiar, gentle touch of Ross's hands hurt. She considered telling him the truth about Nick, because the price she would have to pay for her continued silence was too much to bear. And yet the truth was likely to be just as costly. No matter what choice she made, her life would never be the same.

Tears forced their way into her eyes until Ross's beloved face was a fluid blur.

"What is it?" Ross repeated, his voice urgent. "Sophia, are you well? Do you need a doctor?"

She shook her head and took a ragged breath. "I'm fine."

"Then why--"

"Is there nothing you can do to help him?" she asked desperately.

"Help Gentry? Why in God's name would you ask that?"

"There is something I haven't told you." Using her sleeve, she blotted her eyes until he came back into focus. "Something I learned just before our wedding."

Ross was silent, remaining on his haunches, his hands coming to grip the arms of her chair. "Go on," he said quietly.

Out of the corner of her eye Sophia saw Sir Grant move toward the door, tactfully leaving the two of them alone. "Wait," she told him, and he paused at the threshold. "Please stay, Sir Grant. I think you should know as well, in light of your position at Bow Street."

Morgan slid a questioning glance at Ross and cautiously resumed his place by the window, though he . clearly did not wish to be part of the scene. Sophia stared down at the strong, hair-dusted hands that rested on either side of her. "Do you remember when you told me that Mr. Gentry was the one who had given me the diamond necklace?"

Ross nodded.

"I already knew it," she said dully. "Earlier that day, I encountered Mr. Gentry near Lannigan's. He...took me into his carriage. And we talked." Pausing, she watched her husband's tanned hands grip the arms of the chair until his knuckles and the tips of his fingers were white. The office was as silent as a graveyard, except for the sound of Ross's controlled breathing. The only way Sophia could continue was to keep her tone flat and emotionless. "Gentry said that in his youth he had been on the same prison hulk that my brother had been sent to. He told me what it had been like for John, the things he had suffered...and then he told me--" She stopped, then spoke with a break in her voice. "He told me that John did not die. He took the name of another boy on the ship so that he could gain an early--"

"Sophia," Ross cut in softly, as if believing she had gone mad, "your brother is dead."

She put her hands over his hard, corded ones and looked right at him. "No," she said urgently. "Nick Gentry is my brother. He and John are one and the same. I knew it was true the moment he told me. He could not deceive me, Ross...we were children together, he knows everything I know about our past, and...just look at him, and you'll see the resemblance. We have the same eyes. The same features. The same--"

Ross flung off her hands and strode away from her as if he had been scalded. His chest moved with his labored breaths. "My God," she heard him say through his teeth.

Sophia sagged in her chair, certain that she had lost him now. He would never forgive her for hiding something that she should have told him before they were married. Numbly she went on to describe the rest of the conversation with her brother, as well as the information he had asked her to obtain from the records room. Ross kept his back to her, his hands clenched tightly. "I am sorry," Sophia finished stiffly. "I wish I could do it all over again. I should have told you about Nick as soon as I learned that he was my brother."

"Why tell me now?" Ross asked hoarsely.

There was nothing left to lose. She focused on a distant spot on the floor as she answered. "I hoped you could save him somehow."

A caustic laugh escaped him. "If I could, it wouldn't matter. Before long Gentry would do something else, and I'd be forced to arrest him again. And we would probably be in this same situation a month from now."

"I don't care about next month. All I care about is today." Ross would never know what it cost her to say next, but she forced the words out. "Don't let them hang him," she begged. "I can't lose John again. Do something."

"Dowhat ?" he snarled.

"I don't know," came her frantic reply. "Just find some way to keep him alive. I will talk to him, convince him that he must change, and perhaps he--"

"He'll never change." "Save my brother just this once," she persisted. "One time. I will never ask again, no matter what happens from now on."

He did not move or speak, his shoulders bunched tightly beneath his shirt.

"Lady Sophia," Morgan interjected gently. "I should not speak, but I must point out what is at risk for Sir Ross. All eyes are on Bow Street. Keen attention is being paid to how we handle this matter. If it is discovered that Sir Ross has interfered in the process of law, his reputation and everything he has worked for will be ruined. Furthermore, questions will be asked, and when it comes to light that Gentry is Sir Ross's brother-in-law, the entire Cannon family will suffer the consequences."

"I understand," Sophia said. Painful pressure built behind her eyes, and she dug her nails into her palms to keep from crying. She stared at her husband; he still refused to face her.

There seemed to be nothing left to say. She departed the office silently, knowing that she had asked the impossible of him. Moreover, she had wounded him beyond his ability to forgive.

The two men remained alone. A long time passed before Morgan spoke. "Ross..." In all the years they had known each other, he had never called him by his first name. "Do you think there is a chance she is telling the truth?"

"Of course it's true," Ross replied bitterly. "It's so damned appalling that ithas to be the truth."

After Sophia left Bow Street No. 3, she was not certain what to do. She was suddenly exhausted, as if she had gone for days without sleeping. Desolately she tried to think of what Ross would do with her. With his extensive political connections and influence, it would probably be fairly easy for him to obtain a divorce. Or perhaps he would simply install her somewhere in the country, out of sight and out of mind. Whatever he decided, Sophia would not blame him. And yet she could not conceive that he would reject her absolutely. Perhaps there was some remnant of his feelings that remained, some fragile foundation on which they could rebuild their relationship. Even if it turned out to be a flawed imitation of what they'd once had.

Dazedly she went into the bedroom they shared and changed into a light robe. It was only midday, but her weariness was overwhelming. She lay down on the wide bed and closed her eyes, welcoming the dark oblivion that rolled over her.

Much later she was awakened by the sound of someone entering the room. Groggily she realized that she had slept all afternoon. The room was much cooler, and beyond the partially drawn curtains she could see the sun yielding to the slow encroachment of evening. She sat up, watching as her husband crossed the threshold and closed the door in a decisive motion.

They regarded each other like two gladiators who had been released into the ring but were reluctant to battle.

She was the first to speak. "I'm certain that you...you must be furious with me."

A long silence passed. Assuming that they were going to have a civilized discussion, Sophia was startled when he sprang at her in two swift strides and seized her in a rough grip. His hand tangled in her hair and he tugged her head back, crushing his mouth over hers. The bruising kiss was not meant to give pleasure but to punish. Gasping, Sophia yielded completely, opening her mouth to the aggressive thrust of his tongue, answering his angry passion with utter surrender. She told him with her lips and body that whatever he wanted of her, she would give without reserve. Eventually her lack of resistance seemed to soothe him, and he softened the kiss, still probing deeply, both of his hands cupping around her skull.

However, the embrace was short-lived. Ross let go of her as abruptly as he had seized her and put a few yards of distance between them. He sent her a baffled glare, his eyes light and piercing in his flushed face.

And then Sophia understood, as clearly as if his thoughts and feelings were her own. She had lied to him, kept secrets from him, abused his trust. Yet he still wanted her. He would forgive her anything, even murder. He loved her more than honor, even more than his pride. For a man who had always been so completely self-possessed, the realization was a unpleasant shock.

Desperately she wished for a way to reassure him that from now on, she would be worthy of his trust.

"Please let me explain," she said in a raw voice. "I wanted to tell you about Nick, but I couldn't. I was so afraid that once you knew--"

"You thought I would turn you away."

She nodded, her eyes stinging.

"How many times do I have to prove myself to you?" His face twisted with fury. "Have I ever blamed you for your past mistakes? Have I ever been unfair to you?"

"No."

"Then when are you going to trust me?"

"Ido trust you," she said hoarsely. "But the fear of losing you was more than I could bear."

"The only way you could lose me is by lying to me again."

She blinked, and her heart drummed furiously in her chest. Something in his words implied..."Is it too late?" she managed to ask. "Have I already lost you?"

Ross looked grim, his mouth twisting. "I'm here," he pointed out sardonically.

Her lips shook until she could hardly form words. "If you still want me, I-I promise never to lie to you again."

"That would be a pleasant change," he told her Curtly.

"And...I will keep no secrets from you."

"Also a good idea."

Wild hope flooded her as she realized that he was willing to give her another chance. Furious, but willing. And there could only be one reason that he would put himself at such risk.

Carefully she approached her husband, the room darkening as the buildings and spires of London fractured the falling sunlight. She put her hands on his chest, gently covering the violent thud of his heart. He stiffened but did not pull away. "Thank you, Ross," she whispered.

"For what?" he returned, stone-faced.

"For loving me." She felt his heart lurch at the words, and she realized that until this moment, Ross had not acknowledged his feelings for her, even to himself. He had not wanted to put a name to the emotion. Holding his stare, she saw the blaze of resentment in his eyes...and the smoldering need he could not conceal.

She could think of only one way to dispel his anger, to reassure him and soothe his aggravated pride.

Sophia's sapphire eyes were grave as she reached up to Ross's neck, her fingers working at the knot of his cravat. She concentrated on the task as if it were of momentous importance. The knot loosened, and she drew the length of dark, warm silk from his throat. Ross's body was as rigid as carved marble, his thoughts in a welter. Surely she did not think that a romp in bed would solve anything. But the deliberateness of her actions indicated that she was trying to demonstrate something.

She undressed him slowly, removing his coat, waistcoat, and shirt, then kneeling to unbuckle his shoes. "Sophia," he said tersely.

"Let me," she whispered. Standing, she brushed her fingertips over the matted curls on his chest. Her fingers delved lightly into the black hair, sifted through it, stroked the hot skin beneath. Her thumbs found his nipples, circled delicately, bringing them to hard points. Leaning closer, she flicked her tongue over the dark circle until the nipple was slick and sensitive. He could not restrain a primitive grunt as her hand slid to the stiff bulge of his erection, tracing it slowly.

She glanced at his face then. "Are you sorry for loving me?" she whispered.

"No," he said gruffly. Somehow he managed to hold still as her slim fingers dipped inside the waist of his trousers.

"I want you to know something," Sophia said. The first button popped free, revealing the swollen head of his sex. Her fingers stole to the next button. "I am more in your power, Ross, than you could ever be in mine. I love you." A quiver ran through him at the words. "I love you," she repeated deliberately, plucking at the fourth button.

She continued down the row until his trousers were wide open and his erection was unhindered. Grasping him carefully in both hands, she stroked up and down the hard shaft. She wet her finger in her mouth, then stroked a moist circle around the taut purple crown. The muscles of his thighs stiffened, and he breathed in harsh pants as passion ignited and roared through his body. Sophia's head lowered until it hovered just above the rearing length of him. "Enough," Ross choked. "Christ, I can't--"

"Tell me what to do," she said, the words blowing against him.

Whatever sanity Ross had left promptly burned to cinders. He gasped out instructions, his hands trembling as he clasped her head. "Use your tongue on the tip...yes ...now take as much as you can in your...oh, God..."

Sophia's fervor more than made up for her lack of experience. She did things that Eleanor would never have tried, tugging at his aching flesh, her velvety tongue swirling and lapping. Ross sank to his knees and pulled at her clothes, tearing them, and she gave a breathless laugh at his roughness. His mouth caught greedily at hers, while she wriggled to help him strip the shredded gown down her legs.

A primal sound of satisfaction escaped him when Sophia's naked body was finally revealed. He lifted her to the bed, pausing only to remove his trousers before he joined her. Eagerly she slid between his legs and took his sex into her mouth once more, resisting his efforts to bring her face up to his. Groaning repeatedly, he surrendered to her ministrations, his fingers tangling in the long locks of her hair. However, he was not satisfied for long--he wanted more, he craved the taste of her. Impatiently he seized her hips, maneuvering her until she was positioned at his mouth. He buried his face amid the intimate curls, his hands gripping her thighs as she jerked with surprise.

He searched her with his tongue, licking deeply into the seam of moist folds. Avidly he hunted for the tiny engorged peak where her pleasure was concentrated. Finding it, he nibbled, stroked, darted his tongue at it, as he felt her stiffen in approaching climax. He backed off, gentling, while she moaned pleadingly around his cock. Twice more he brought her to the edge, making her suffer, tormenting until she responded with desperate tugs of her mouth.

Each time Sophia drew on him, Ross sank his tongue deep inside her, matching his rhythm to hers, until she shuddered hard as her pleasure finally reached its zenith. She cried out against his groin, her mouth still clamped around him. His own culmination approached rapidly, and he moved his hands to her head. But she resisted his attempts to dislodge her, and the silky strokes of her tongue became too much to bear. The climax broke over him, and he arched and gasped as he was consumed in an explosion of pure white fire.

Eventually Sophia turned and climbed over him, resting her head on the center of his chest. Ross held her tightly. His lips moved against her throbbing temple as he spoke. "I don't care who your brother is. He could be the devil incarnate, and I would still want you. I love everything about you. I never expected to find such happiness. I love you so much that I can't bear the thought of anything coming between us."

Sophia's slim, damp body flexed against his. "There is nothing between us now," she said throatily.

Ross parted his legs to allow her to settle between them, his cock stirring briefly against her stomach. Sighing in relaxation, he clasped his hands behind his head and contemplated her thoughtfully. "Sophia," he murmured, "I don't think there is any way I can save Gentry from the hangman. Nor am I particularly disposed to try. I can't overlook his crimes, even though he is your brother. The fact is, Gentry is beyond redemption. He has proved that on many occasions."

She shook her head in disagreement. "My brother's life has been very difficult--"

"I know," he interrupted as gently as possible. It was apparent that any arguments concerning Nick Gentry would result in nothing but frustration for both of them. Sophia would never stop hoping that her brother's ruined soul could be salvaged. He smiled slightly, stroking the fragile sweep of her jaw. "Only you would continue to love a brother who blackmailed you."

"No one has ever given him an opportunity to change," she said. "If he had just one chance at a different life...think of the kind of man he could become."

"I'm afraid my imagination fails me," came Ross's sardonic reply. Rolling over, he pinned her beneath him, his muscular thighs straddling hers. "Enough about Gentry. He has occupied my thoughts enough for one day." "All right," Sophia agreed, although it was obvious that she wanted to discuss him further. "How shall we pass the rest of the evening?"

"I'm hungry," Ross murmured, bending over her naked breasts, "I want supper...and then more of you." His mouth covered one swollen nipple, his teeth catching at it gently. "Does that sound agreeable?"

Thanks to Ross's preparations, there had so far been no violent demonstrations from agitators on behalf of Nick Gentry. The following day, however, he expected a few public skirmishes. Therefore Bow Street had been blocked off with troops and militia, and a party of three runners and a dozen constables was busy clearing away onlookers who tried to gather at Newgate. Families of magistrates had been given notice to barricade their homes, while employees at banks, distilleries, and other businesses were given guns to help defend against possible looting. Sophia had vehemently refused Ross's attempts to send her to the country until the situation was resolved. She did not want to be bustled off to Silverhill Park to sit helplessly with Catherine, Iona, and Ross's grandfather while her brother's fate was being determined.

As the day progressed, Sophia sat in the private parlor in Bow Street No. 4, frantically considering what might be done for her brother. Her head ached and throbbed. Ross did not take luncheon, only sent repeatedly for jugs of coffee while a stream of visitors came to the magisterial office. Gradually evening approached, and the city swarmed with armed foot patrols that kept a lid on the simmering rookeries and flash-houses. On his way to deliver a message to a justice in Finsbury Square, Ernest stopped at No. 4 to give Sophia a brief report of the situation. "I 'eard Sir Ross and Sir Grant talk as 'ow they're surprised the public 'as taken Gentry's arrest so quiet-like. Sir Ross says it's a sign that many opinions 'as swung against Gentry." Ernest shook his head at the masses' disloyalty. "Poor Black Dog," he murmured. "Bloody ingrates, all o' 'em."

Were Sophia not so miserable, she would have smiled at the lad's ready defense of his tarnished hero. "Thank you, Ernest," she said. "Be careful when you go out. I would not like for you to be hurt."

He blushed and grinned at her concern. "Oh, no one'll lay a finger on me, milady!"

He dashed off, and Sophia was left to brood alone once more. The sun set, leaving London covered in hot, black night. The air was pungent with coal and the stench of a foul east wind. Just as Sophia considered changing into her nightgown in preparation for bed, Ross strode into their private apartments. He stripped off his sweat-dampened shirt as he crossed the threshold.

"Is there any news?" Sophia demanded, following him into the bedroom. "How is my brother? Are there any reports? Has there been agitation near the prison? I'm going mad from the lack of news'."

"Everything is relatively calm," Ross said, pouring water into a washbasin. The long muscles of his back flexed as he sluiced water over his face, chest, and beneath his arms. "Fetch me a clean shirt, will you?"

She hurried to comply. "Where are you going? You must eat something first. At least a sandwich--"

"No time," Ross muttered, donning the fresh linen shirt and tucking it into his trousers. Deftly he positioned the collar and tied a cravat around his neck. "An idea occurred to me just a few minutes ago. I'm going to Newgate--I expect to return soon. Don't stay up on my account. If I have news of any significance, I'll wake you."

"You're going to see my brother?" Quickly Sophia pulled a patterned gray waistcoat from the wardrobe and held it up for him to slide his arms through. "Why? What is this idea? I want to go with you!" "Not to Newgate."

"I'll wait outside in the carriage," she insisted desperately. "You can give the footman a brace of pistols, and the driver as well. And there are patrols all around the prison, aren't there? I'll be as safe there as I am here. Oh, Ross, I'll go mad if I have to wait here any longer! You must take me with you. Please. He'smy brother, isn't he?"

Pelted by the flurry of anxious words, Ross gave her a hard stare, a small muscle jumping in his cheek. Sophia knew that he wanted to refuse her. However, he also understood her anguished concern for her brother. ? "You swear that you will stay in the carriage," he demanded.

"Yes!"

His gaze held hers, and he muttered a curse. "Get your cloak."

Afraid that he might change his mind, she obeyed with alacrity. "What is your idea?" she asked.

Ross shook his head, unwilling to explain. "I am still considering it. And I don't want to raise your hopes, for it will probably come to naught."

As a temporary lodging for those awaiting trial or execution, Newgate was often called the stone jug. Anyone who had ever visited or been incarcerated in the place swore that hell itself could not be more wretched. The ancient walls echoed with the constant howls and jeers of prisoners chained like animals in their cells. No furniture or comforts of any kind were allowed in the open wards or solitary cells. The gaolers, who were supposed to maintain order, were often corrupt, cruel, mentally unbalanced, or some combination of the three. Once, after depositing a condemned man in Newgate, Eddie Sayer had returned to Bow Street with the comment that the gaolers alarmed him more than the prisoners.

Although the prisoners suffered mightily in the bitter cold of winter, it was nothing compared to the unholy stench that accumulated in the hot summer days. Armies of cockroaches scurried across the floor as Ross bade the head gaoler to take him to Nick Gentry's cell. It was located in the heart of the prison and nicknamed the "devil's closet," from which there was no escape.

As they proceeded through one of the twisted mazes, lice crackled underfoot and squeaking rats fled from the approach of heavy boots. Distant cries of misery rose from the cells on the lower floors. It unnerved Ross to think that he had allowed his wife to wait in a carriage just outside, and he sorely regretted his decision to bring her here. He comforted himself with the knowledge that she was in the company of an armed footman, a driver, and two runners bearing cutlasses and pistols.

"That Gentry, 'e's a quiet one," Eldridge, the head gaoler, commented. An enormous, stocky individual with bulbous features, he reeked almost as badly as those who were incarcerated. The top of his head was bald, but long, greasy strands trailed from the sides of his scalp and fluttered down his back. Eldridge was one of the rare prison-keepers who appeared to enjoy his job. Perhaps that was because he made a nice profit each week by selling his accounts of prisoners' experiences within Newgate, including the final confessions of the condemned, to London newspapers. No doubt he would make a pretty penny with his tales of the infamous Nick Gentry.

"Nary a peep from 'im all day," Eldridge grumbled. "I ask ye, what kind o' story can I sell if 'e keeps 'is gob shut?"

"Inconsiderate of him," Ross agreed sardonically. Apparently gratified by Ross's concurrence, the gaol-keeper led him to the entrance of the devil's closet. A six-inch-wide window had been cut in the heavy oak-and-iron door to allow the prisoner to speak to visitors. "Gentry!" Eldridge grunted through the hole. "Visitor!"

There was no reply.

Ross frowned. "Where is the guard?"

Eldridge's oily face turned toward him. "There is no guard, Sir Ross. 'Twasn't needed."

"I specifically ordered a guard to be placed at this door at all times," Ross said curtly. "Not only to prevent escape attempts, but also for Gentry's own protection."

A deep laugh rose from Eldridge's pendulous gut. "Escape?" he scoffed. "No one can escape the devil's closet. 'Sides, Gentry's been handcuffed, an' irons fitted on his legs, an' 'e's weighted with three hundred pounds o' chains. 'E can't move to pick 'is nose! No man alive could get in or out o' that cell, wivoutthis" He brandished a key and worked to unlock the door.

The thick slab of oak and iron groaned in angry protest as it was pushed open. "There," Eldridge said with satisfaction, the lamp in his hand jangling as he walked into the cell. "Ye see? Gentry is--" His huge frame jiggled from a start of surprise. "Bloody 'ell!"

Ross shook his head slightly when he saw that the devil's closet was empty. "My God," he muttered, filled with a combination of admiration and fury at his brother-in-law's resourcefulness. A bent iron nail gleamed beside the massive pile of chains on the floor. Gentry had managed to pick the locks on his handcuffs and leg irons--in the dark, no less. A bar was missing from the inner window on the other side of the room. It was inconceivable that Gentry could have loosened that bar and squeezed his large frame through such a narrow space, but he had done it. There was every likelihood that he'd had to dislocate a shoulder to accomplish it.

"When was the last time someone saw him here?" Ross barked to the dazed-looking gaol-keeper.

"An hour ago, I think," Eldridge mumbled, his eyes bulging from his sweat-drenched face.

Staring through the inner window, Ross saw that Gentry had broken through the moldy wall of the next cell, probably using the window bar. He strove to recall the details of the Newgate layout that was tacked to the wall of his office.

He shot a murderous glance at the gaol-keeper. "Does that key work for all the cells on this floor?"

"I-I think so--"

"Give it to me. Now get your fat arse to the ground level, and tell the runners at my carriage that Gentry is escaping. They'll know what to do."

"Yes, Sir Ross!" Eldridge fled with surprising speed for someone of his girth, taking the lamp with him and leaving Ross in darkness.

Gripping the key, Ross left the devil's closet and unlocked the adjoining room. Swearing profusely, he climbed through the hole in the wall, following his brother-in-law's tracks. "Damn you, Gentry," he muttered as rustles and squeaks of unsettled vermin greeted his intrusion. "When I catch you, I'll hang you myself for putting me through this."

Breathing hard from exertion, Nick Gentry pushed a swath of damp hair from his eyes and emerged onto the roof of Newgate. Cautiously he placed a foot on an outside wall that connected to a neighboring building. The wall was about eight inches thick, and so old that it was crumbling along the top. However, it was the only route to freedom. Once he made it to the other side, he would enter the building, find his way to the street, and then be unstoppable. He knew London as no one else did--every alley, every corner, every hole and crevice. No one could find him if he did not wish to be found.

Slowly Nick proceeded along the wall like a cat, heedless of the possible fall that would see him crushed on the ground. He squinted fiercely, the dense sky relieved by a mere glimmer of moonlight. One foot after another; he tried to keep his mind clear. But a thought broke his concentration--Sophia. Once he left London, he would never be able to see her again. Nick did not identify his feelings for her as love, because he knew himself to be incapable of that emotion. But he was conscious of a rip in his soul, a sense that to leave her for good would mean the loss of the fragment of decency he still possessed. She was the only person on earth who still cared for him, who would continue to care, no matter what he did.

One step, another, right foot, left...Nick shoved the thoughts of his sister away and considered where he would go when he was free. He could make a new start somewhere, take a new name, a new life. The idea should have been cheering, but instead it sank him into gloominess. He was tired of the balancing act that never allowed him to relax for a minute. He was weary, as weary as if he had lived a hundred years instead of twenty-five. The thought of starting again revolted him. It was his only choice, however. And he had never been one to wring his hands over what he couldn't change.

Part of the wall crumbled beneath his right foot, sending chunks of mortar and showers of dust to the ground. Silently Nick fought for balance, his arms outspread, his breath hissing between his teeth. Regaining equilibrium, he continued more cautiously, using instinct more than vision to cross the wall in the dark. There was little movement from the ground below, only a few foot patrols crossing back and forth. The groups of demonstrators who tried to gather were quickly ushered away. It was a mere fraction of the crowd that Nick had expected to protest on his behalf. He grinned in ironic appreciation of the obvious wane in his popularity. "Thankless bastards," he muttered.

Fortunately, no one noticed the figure poised high above on the prison wall. By some miracle of God--or whim of the devil--Nick finally reached the neighboring building. Although he could not quite get to the nearest window, he found a carved lion's head jutting from the stonework. Settling a hand on the ornamentation, he deduced that it was not real stone but Coade stone, an artificial material that was used for quoining and sculpture when using real stone was too expensive. Nick had no idea if the thing would hold him. Grimacing, he grabbed at a tattered blanket he had draped over one shoulder and tied it around the lion's head. Jerking hard to tighten the knot, he focused on the window, three feet down. Good, he thought, it was open, and he didn't care much for the prospect of breaking through glass.

Holding his breath, Nick gripped the blanket, hesitated for one reluctant moment, then jumped from the wall in a decisive plunge. He swung through the open window with an ease that stunned him, as he had bargained for a bit more difficulty. Although he landed on his feet, the momentum brought him forward until he fell with a pained grunt. Swearing, he rose and shook himself off. The room appeared to be an office of some sort, the window left open by some careless clerk. "Almost there," Nick murmured, striding through the office and hunting for the stairs that would lead him to the ground.

Two minutes later, Nick eased through a door he had found at the side of the building, which had turned out to be a furniture factory. Armed with a turning-blade and a heavy stick of wood, he kept to the shadows as he moved forward.

He froze when he heard the click of a pistol being cocked.

"Stay there," came a woman's quiet voice.

His breath hitched in astonishment. "Sophia?"

His sister stood there alone, the gleam of a pistol in her hand, her steady gaze pinned on him. "Don't run," she warned, her face tense.

"How the hell did you get here?" he asked incredulously. "It's dangerous, and--For God's sake, put that away or you'll hurt yourself."

She did not move. "I can't. If I do, you'll run."

"You wouldn't shoot me."

Her reply was very soft. "There's only one way to find out, isn't there?"

Nick braced himself against a rush of utter despair.

"Have you no care for me, Sophia?" he asked hoarsely.

"Of course I do. That is why I had to stop you. My husband has come to help you."

"Like hell he has. Don't be a fool! Let me go, damn you!"

"We are going to wait for Sir Ross," she said stubbornly.

Out of the corner of his eye Nick saw patrols and a pair of runners coming toward them. It was too late now. His sister had ruined any chance of escape. With fatalistic acceptance, Nick forced himself to relax and drop his makeshift weapons. All right. He would wait for Cannon. And Sophia would learn that her precious husband had lied to her. It would almost be worth it, to expose Cannon for what he was, rather than have Sophia worship him. "Fine," he said evenly. "We'll let your husband help me--right to the gallows."